Letters to a Blind Man

Why do we write?

It's almost like screaming, but so quiet-

So innocent- so unimposing,

almost as if we were trying not to disturb the world with our words.

Every writer knows to be careful with their words,

as they can be dangerous- sharp- cruel.

It is the small, simple words which nobody suspects

that tear our worlds apart at the seams.

We write because we want to be heard,

but we want to remain hidden,

protected by the barriers we've built around ourselves

to keep sheltered from the cold- the hard- the rough corners of the world.

Our words are so fleeting.

No sooner are they spoken than they disappear,

evaporate right before our eyes,

sucked from between our lips and pulled from our throats- dissipated.

Yet they possess a permanence, an ever-presence,

because we humans never forget the hurt. We never forget.

Their black imposition on the once pure white pages now blemished-

how could it be forgotten?

But my words- the ones nobody seems to hear or see-

the ones that don't mean to hurt but to heal-

are they safe? Or are they pointed daggers of the subconscious

as all other words are?

Speak.